The Great Toaster Fiasco of '92
by Beautifully-Damaged
Summary: Wee!Chesters, Bobby Singer, John Winchester, a shotgun and a very unfortunate toaster. Some people have called this piece a comedy, it wasn't really meant to be though nor do I really see it that way. See a/n: at start of fic for full working title. Enjoy


Other Working Title: The Reason Why Bobby Singer Threatened To Shoot John Winchester Full of Buckshot.

Although I said I wouldn't try anymore to write a caring, loving, good John; I did. However, this isn't so much an attempt at that as this piece sprung from a friend saying in a blog, 'john vs toaster'.

So, it just had to be written, did it not?

xxxxx

The Great Toaster Fiasco of '92

_Bang clank bang clank clank clank. _

Sounds of metal against metal and something fairly indiscernible filled the still, cool morning air of the musky old house.

"Damn it. Stupid piece of crap." John spoke just above a whisper not wanting to wake his boys, at least not yet.

_Tap tap bang tap tap_

More sounds emanated from the kitchen area as John tried his best to keep the noise to a minimum.

"Stop fighting me would you? It really isn't very difficult. I want something and you're gonna give it to me." John's voice level rose uncontrollably as he wielded a knife wildly in the air. "You're gonna give me what I want if we have to do this all morning." John lunged forward with the knife and another small object in his hand opposite the knife. "I mean it. Now hold still, quit toppling over or you're gonna lose _all_ of your parts."

_Clank bang tickticktick pop _

Finally his persistence won out. "Aha! Finally! You little son of a bitch. I knew you'd give it up." John continued twisting, hitting and bending small pieces of wire around and through its simple yet elusive insides.

_scrape scrape_

The serrated tip of the blade drug slow and deep across the top of the first few layers.

_scrape scrape  
><em>

More and more sounds began to fill the space of Bobby's home, but all the noise soon became too much for anybody to sleep through; especially an always curious Sam.

"Dad?" Sam's little voice drifted into the kitchen startling John. Sam couldn't see this he thought. Not yet.

John wasn't ready to try and explain his violent, unreasonable actions to one so young.

xxx

Quickly he searched for an answer then awkwardly responded. "Shhh.. don't come in Sam. Stay on the couch. I'll be there in a minute."

John had no idea how to hide the mess he had just created and wished Dean would wake up and stop his brother from coming into the room. His wish came true in the next minute when his eldest, Dean, stumbled into the room rubbing sleep from one eye as he looked around in shocked dismay.

"Geez Dad..d-did you do all this?"

Sheepishly he replied as he too looked around at the mess at his feet, the table and even the kitchen counters. "Ahh.. yeah."

"Well", Dean started slowly, "what happened?"

John's face turned a light pink, his round cheeks experiencing a rush of heat as he began to blush.

"I tried to make breakfast. Toast, to be more specific. But the stupid toaster was broken so I tried to fix it but it kept putting out burnt pieces; so I adjusted the heating element and connected some broken wires but it still kept ruining the food. I had to run down to the damn gas station and grab more bread because I.. _it_.. burned everything."

By now John wasn't even looking at Dean. His actions and demeanor was more that of a child. He drug the toe of his boot through the small, blackened crumbs strewn about his feet as he shoved a screwdriver deep into the recesses of his pants pockets.

Dean smiled when he realized this was the first time their father had actually tried to cook them anything for longer than he could actually recall. Seeing a saucer full of toast, one piece piled high upon the other, it could of been considered a Tower of Teetering Toast; its partially burnt and broken halves dripping in too much butter. It didn't even look appealing but Dean didn't dare say anything negative.

"Soo all that's for us?" he asked John.

"Yeah. I guess. It was supposed to be a decent breakfast. I bought eggs and everything but, well.. then the damn toaster went haywire on me and I got a little carried away and I might of accidentally knocked the eggs off the table when I was using trying to use this stupid screwdriver. John slowly pulled out the tool, its black and yellow handle now broken; back out of his pocket, holding it up for his son to see.

"That's Uncle Bobby's screwdriver Dad. All of his tools are that color and yours are red. Oooooo... he's gonna be mad you broke it."

With a heavy sigh he replied, "I know, son. I know. That's why neither of us are going to tell him."

The sound of feet coming towards the kitchen caught both father and son's attention. John and Dean turned in the direction of the living room. They knew it was had to be Sam as there was no way Bobby Singer was that light footed.

"That's why none of _us_ are gonna tell Uncle. Right Dean? I can keep secrets too can't I Dean? I won't tell Bobby Dad, I promise." Sam crossed his heart in an X pattern against his makeshift pajamas of a sweatshirt and flannel.

Spying his father's shotgun in the corner of the kitchen leaning against a broken cabinet door, Dean couldn't help but grin. He knew the gun wasn't isn't the kitchen to start with because he recalled the evening before with clarity.

John had placed Dean and Sam on the couch, covered them both with a singular blanket then pointed to his weapon. The butt of the gun was on the floor while the barrel rested against the arm of a recliner. '_I'll be asleep right here if you boys need me.'_

"You were going to shoot it weren't you Dad?"

"Shoot what?" Sam's little voice squeaked as he spoke.

Slowly but honestly John answered Dean. "I considered it.. yes."

Dean stifled his laughter by covering his mouth with his hand but Sam didn't understand what they were talking about.

Frustrated, Sam exclaimed too loudly, "What? What were you gonna shoot Dad?"

"Yeah John. What _were_ you gonna shoot? It's only seven a.m. dagumit."

John had yet to reveal to his boys why keeping his latest toaster scenario and the fact he was going to blow the offending piece of four-slotted metal to Kingdom Come was because John knew how much Bob enjoyed toast. He loved it so much that although one hardly ever can recall witnessing Singer eat much of anything, John knew better. He was there the day Bobby locked up the tires on his old beat up Duster, spun the car around in a 180 degree turn, slid across a dirt path, coming to rest in front of a small town hardware and goods store.

_(( 'What the hell was that for Bob? You're maniac! Why'd we stop? There's no bar here and town hall is further in town, hence the name T.O.W.N Hall.'_

Bob pointed up to the brightly painted sign swinging in the breeze above the front door.

"ON SALE TODAY. QUALITY TOASTERS. ONLY $5." and smiled the biggest grin John had seen.

'All this for a toaster?'

'Yeah. I love the stuff.' ))

With the speed of an excellent supernatural hunter and the skillful maneuvering tactics of a Marine, John quickly picked up Sam underneath his arms, swung his body through the air, whispered in his ear "Stand up"; then put him feet first into a chair in front of the toaster in hopes of hiding it from Bob's sight until he had a chance to explain.

He tried to stand in front of his youngest and block as much of the mess as he could as he turned to face Bob.

"Well, you see," he began, "I started to make breakfast. For the boys ya know? They need to be fed and I was up early. I couldn't sleep. By the way your chair isn't fit for man nor beast. Speaking of which, did you get a dog or something, because it smells as bad as it is uncomfortable. Next time you should offer your guest something better to sleep in. Anyway I started to make breakfast and..."

Unable to finish, John was interrupted by Sam's shouting. "Dad broke your toaster! It's in pieces on the counter cuz he tried to make breakfast!." Sam's voice, now much less enthusiastic when he saw Bobby's facial expression continued, "Ut oh. I'm sorry dad. I-I wasn't supposed to say nething was I?"

John's eyes rolled back in his head and turned to Dean. "And I thought you said he could keep a secret?"

Dean's pale-green eyes were wide as held his hands up in the air, waving in a gesture of, _'no'. 'I never said anything.' 'Sam said it.' Not me.' _

With a huff and a growl Bobby told John to move out of his way. Told him he wanted to see his toaster. Instead John reached out, grabbed up the platter of towering toast and presented it to Bob. "Would you like some toast?", he said with a grin which stretched from ear to ear. "No. I wanna see my toaster." Slowly John stepped aside. Bits of shiny silver were all over the counter top. Screws, washers, part of the push-down handle and a piece of wire Bob could only assume was part of the heating element was scattered near John's knife.

Bobby looked like he'd just seen a ghost. His face went pale as he drug his hand across his beard and rearranged the bill of his cap.

"Boys. You'd better skeedattle into the other room. Go turn on the tv n watch Saturday morning cartoons. I have to have a talk with your daddy." Dean and Sam both looked at Bob as he spoke to them, then to each other, turn and ran.

Suddenly it sounded as if all hell were breaking loose right there in Bobby's house. Loud noises of clanging metal, the scuffling of feet, and John yelling, '_Son of a bitch Bob, calm down! It's just *chuckle* toaster!' _

Dean told Sam to stay put and went and peeked around the corner of the kitchen just in time to see his father running with a plate, now only partially full of toast, in circles around the table while saying, "Oh come on Bob. It was a piece of shit. They all came out burnt then it died. But if you want some eggs *chuckles* there a dozen on the floor right over there." *chuckle*

Bobby picked up the shotgun and shouted back. "It made toast just fine until you killed her! Damn it John between my cars, drinking all my whiskey and now my toaster I'm gonna shoot your ass full of buckshot if you ever mess with my stuff again!" Dean watched as his father quickly slammed the brown kitchen door behind him as he fled towards the safety of the salvage yard.

Dean sighed as he picked up several burnt pieces of toast off the kitchen floor, sat in front the television and handed some to his brother. "Here, eat. I think it's gonna be awhile before we see anything else for breakfast... or Dad again for that matter."

-end-


End file.
